


Challenge or Candor

by The_Queen_In_The_North



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, Porn with Feelings, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25986571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Queen_In_The_North/pseuds/The_Queen_In_The_North
Summary: Now a woman grown, Sansa Stark plays Challenge or Candor, the Westerosi version of Truth or Dare, with an old friend and hopeful lover, Sandor Clegane.*AU - Canon Divergence
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 88
Kudos: 313





	1. Chapter 1

Inside Winterfell’s Great Hall, seated at a trestle table a week before the dead would arrive at the gates, Sansa flipped the golden coin, catching it with one hand and placing it onto the back of the other. When she removed her hand, she observed that the coin faced dragon side up. 

“Arya,” said Sansa. “Go ahead, give me a challenge.”

Seated across from her, in between Gendry and Tyrion Lannister, her little sister contemplated that for a moment, looking around the hall for some wicked idea. When a smirk formed on her lips, Sansa knew that she found one. “I challenge you to invite the Hound to play.”

Inside her chest, her heart fluttered. And in between her legs, arousal grew. 

_It would be the perfect excuse to talk to him after all this time._ It had been years since Sansa had last seen Sandor Clegane. Yet throughout those years, Sansa had never forgotten him. On the contrary, their time apart fostered feelings inside of her, an infatuation of sorts, with her former betrothed’s sworn shield. Sansa cursed herself for not leaving with him the night he had come to her during the Battle of Blackwater Bay. However, she was younger then, foolish enough to still believe that she would be safe should Stannis Baratheon win the battle and defeat the Lannisters. But he didn’t, and not leaving with the Hound quickly proved to be the worst mistake of her life. 

Since then, she had been forced to marry Tyrion Lannister, extracted from King’s Landing by Littlefinger, married to Lord Harrold Hardyng of the Eyrie after her cousin, Lord Robert Arryn, died, her previous marriage annulled due to being unconsummated, and nearly forced to wed Littlefinger after he had inconspiciously paid an assassin to murder her lord husband in hopes of gaining the North _and_ the Eyrie. Luckily for Sansa, she learned to play Petyr Baelish’s game, and upon finding him guilty of a plethora of charges, he had been executed. 

In the month they were married, Harrold Hardyng had not been as terrible of a husband as Littlefinger would have been, but he was arrogant, cocky, and preferred Sansa to remain in bed rather than carry out duties as Lady of the Eyrie. Sansa never loved the man, she didn’t even like him, and was grateful that his seed never quickened inside her womb. Each time she had to perform her wifely duties in the bedchamber, she would close her eyes and imagine someone else-- the same man who had come to Winterfell with a group of others the day prior, joining their forces in the inevitable battle against the Others who marched south. The same man who her little sister had challenged her to speak to.

Despite the feelings she had come to discover for Sandor Clegane, the desire that had grown from his absence and distance, Sansa was apprehensive. _A woman grown I may be, but will he ever see me as anything other than a child?_

“Go on, Lady Sansa. Drink,” Tyrion Lannister urged her. “Better to be sick from wine than to trouble yourself with Clegane.”

 _I’m a woman now, not a child. He will see that...won’t he?_ Sansa took in a deep breath and said, “I’ll do it.” Arya’s mouth fell open, clearly surprised by her sister’s acceptance of such a challenge.

Sansa stood from the trestle table and smoothed out her jet black gown, sauntering slowly across the hall towards him. He was sitting alone at the far end of the hall with his back facing her, a cup in his hand. Her breaths became more shallow with every step, feeling less and less like a woman as she approached and more like a child again. _No, not a child. A woman._ Once she stood behind him, she didn’t know what to say, the years apart making them strangers once again. Rather than use words to grab his attention, Sansa put her quivering hand on one broad, muscled shoulder.

“What the bloody--” Sandor Clegane began to curse before turning his head and discovering that it was her. “Little bird,” he exhaled once his eyes met hers, the anger in the tone of his voice melting away.

It had been years since she heard that. _Little bird._ Sansa once believed he was mocking her when he would call her that, but in that moment, it sounded endearing. “Sandor,” she said, feigning calmness. _A woman grown, but around him, I’m as nervous as a child._ “Forgive me, I should have come to you sooner.”

“Forgive _you_?” the Hound asked. “I held a bloody blade to your throat the last time I saw you.” 

It was true. That night the Blackwater burned, the Hound had come to her, offered to take her away, but he also forced her to sing him a song while wielding a dagger. Sansa had been terrified then, the green light from the wildfire filling the room as the blade pressed against her skin, but over the years, it was not the fear she remembered-- it was the kiss. _That kiss never happened,_ she thought, a bitter reminder. _I only wish that it had. I’ve dreamt of it, fantasized of it, again and again, but that will not make it any more true._

“You were drunk, Sandor. And the battle, the wildfire...it doesn’t matter now. It wasn’t right of me not to welcome you when you arrived.”

Sandor Clegane looked relieved by her response, as if he expected her to lash out at him for remembering that last moment together. “You’re a lady... _the_ Lady, now. Plenty of more important things for you to do than to speak to an old dog.”

The words made her sad. “There’s nothing more important,” she blurted, nearly blushing when it registered to her what she said. “So, we’re playing a game...I was wondering if you would like to join us.”

“A game?” he asked her, still bewildered from her previous response. “What sort of game?”

“It’s a drinking game. I’ve never played it before, but Tyrion introduced it to us.”

The Hound turned around on the bench to face the others. When Sansa looked over, she saw that Arya was scowling at him. “That bloody sister of yours and the Imp,” he scoffed. “Who’s the black-haired lad? A suitor of yours?” 

Sansa thought he sounded jealous and almost smiled. “No, that’s Gendry. He’s my sister’s...well I’m not quite sure what he is to her.”

“The she-wolf has herself a lover, does she?” He chuckled wryly and shook his head. “Poor bastard. So, what is this game, little bird?”

This time, Sansa couldn’t suppress the smile that played on her lips after hearing him call her that again. “It’s called Challenge or Candor. Tyrion can explain it better than I can, but you flip a coin and either have to answer a question honestly or complete a challenge, else you need to drink.”

“Let me guess, girl-- _this_ is your challenge?” he asked dourly. 

Sansa’s smile fell and she gazed at her feet, embarrassed. _Just like a child_. “It was, but not because I didn’t want to. I only--”

The Hound stood from the bench and placed a hand on the small of her back, urging her forward. “I’m teasing you, little bird. I’ll come play the Imp’s game to save you from having to drink yourself into a stupor.”

Walking through the Great Hall with Sandor Clegane beside her reminded her of all the times he escorted her throughout the Red Keep, years ago. But rather than feel tense with him beside her as she often did then, she felt something else, something stimulating. The two received many perplexed stares from others inside the hall, most notably from Gendry, Arya and Tyrion who watched them approach. Sansa had to bite her lip from grinning.

Once Sansa sat down on the bench, the Hound sitting right beside her, Tyrion forced a smile and said, “Clegane, we all thought you were dead.”

Sandor Clegane frowned. “Don’t sound too bloody disappointed.”

“Not at all. Better you alive, fighting for the living, than killing our men as an Other.”

“ _I’m_ disappointed,” Arya added.

“Arya!” Sansa reproached her. 

The Hound spat on the ground before pouring himself a cup of wine. “I bet you are.”

Following the dragging silence, Tyrion cleared his throat. “All right, Clegane. Let me explain the game to you _slowly_ ,” he chuckled drunkenly, picking up the coin from the table. “I have here a golden dragon. King Jaehaerys is minted on one side, and on the other, the Targaryen sigil. If the coin lands dragon side up, you’ll choose someone to give you a challenge, and if king side up, you’ll choose someone to ask you a question. Now, the catch is you want to choose someone you believe will give you an easy challenge or question so _they_ will be the ones to drink should you complete the task. If you decide to opt out, you’ll need to down your cup in its entirety. Forgive me, lots of words...I know you are not a man of words.”

“Sounds like a bloody game for children,” the Hound said before eyeing her. Sansa thought she saw regret in those grey eyes before he turned back to Tyrion. “Give me the coin, Imp.” Once Tyrion slid the golden dragon to him, the Hound flipped the coin high into the air and caught it in the middle of his palm. “Dragon,” he mumbled, glancing at Tyrion. “Imp, do your worst.”

Tyrion had a sinister smile plastered on his face. “I challenge you to walk right up to my brother and smack him in the head.”

The Hound boomed with laughter. “Smack the Kingslayer? I’d do that without a bloody challenge.”

“Smack him _and_ insult him,” Tyrion added mischievously.

Sansa had never seen the Hound move so quickly, standing up from the trestle table and striding over to Jaime Lannister who sat near the hearth with Brienne of Tarth. Before Jaime could inquire what we wanted, Sandor Clegane lifted his hand, smacked the side of his golden-haired head, and said loudly, “Fuck you, you dumb one handed cunt.” 

Gasps seemed to come from everywhere, but Sansa’s quickly turned into gleeful laughter, a laugh she had not felt since she was a child. However, it was short-lived once Brienne pulled the sword from her scabbard. 

“Lady Brienne!” Tyrion shouted across the hall. “We are playing a game. I asked him to do it. Clegane meant no harm.”

As the Hound returned to the table, unfazed by Brienne’s threat, Sansa could see a glimpse of a smile on his face once he saw that she was laughing again. When he sat back down, he was sitting closer to her than before, their arms touching one another, and the sharp arousal that followed made her cross her legs.

“Lady Arya,” Tyrion said, guzzling his wine upon Sandor completing his challenge. “It’s your turn.” 

Arya snatched the coin from in front of the Hound and sneered at him before flipping it into the air and catching it. When she looked down, she sighed. “A stupid king,” she mumbled, looking at the man in front of her. “Since you’re not dead, ask me something,” Arya said unkindly.

The Hound crossed his arms over his chest, and Sansa could feel the muscles flexing against her arm. “Since you wish I was dead so badly, why didn’t you just kill me after the Crossroads?” 

Sansa had never seen her sister so uncomfortable. Arya looked at him for a short while, blank in expression, before deciding not to answer, picking up her cup and guzzling the wine inside. “Gendry, your turn.”

“I’m done,” Gendry slurred with his head resting on the table. “I’m like to be sick.”

“You better not,” her little sister muttered.

When a brown-haired, slender serving girl came by with a full flagon of wine, Tyrion took a long look at her ass before saying, “Give me the coin. I do believe it is my turn.”

Once Arya slid it over to him, Tyrion stumbled picking it up before tossing it into the air and, quite craftily, having it land on the ground. He leaned over just behind the serving girl’s ass and pressed his face into it. The girl startled, nearly spilling the flagon of wine as she placed it on the table. 

“Oh, pardon me,” Tyrion said innocently after picking up the gold. “It appears to be a dragon. Lady Sansa, I’ll hear what you have to say.”

Sansa watched as the serving girl walked away with a shy smile and said, “I challenge you _not_ to invite her into your bedchamber tonight.”

Tyrion Lannister chuckled before quickly swallowing his wine, indicating that he would not complete such a challenge. “I’m sorry, my lady. But these may very well be our last days. I intend on enjoying them,” he expressed, leaning over the table to hand her the coin. 

Sansa flipped the coin but when she made to catch it, it bounced off her hand and landed on the floor. Before she could retrieve it, the Hound beat her to it, reaching down eagerly to pick up the golden dragon for her. When he placed it into her palm dragon side up, their hands touched, and the sensation was exhilarating. 

_I should choose him to give me a challenge,_ she thought. When she couldn’t find it within her to ask, Sansa looked over at a nauseated Gendry who was resting his head on Arya’s shoulder. “Give me a challenge.”

“I’m done playing, m’lady,” he said weakly.

“You can still challenge her,” Arya encouraged him, nudging his head. “Give her a good one. Sansa hasn’t even touched her wine yet.”

Gendry was silent for a moment before chuckling under his breath, lifting his mouth to whisper into Arya’s ear. Her sister’s eyes widened just as she looked over at the Hound; Sansa could feel her heart fluttering again, erratic and heavy. “Say it-- no way she’ll do it.” Arya muttered to Gendry. 

“M’lady, forgive me,” the bastard began, almost meekly. “But I challenge you to…”

“What?” Sansa asked, growing anxious once he trailed off.

Arya groaned when Gendry couldn’t continue and said, “He challenges you to kiss the Hound.”

Sansa blushed for the first time in years and felt Sandor Clegane tense up beside her, the arm that was touching hers somehow burning now.

“That’s absurd,” Tyrion spoke up, disgusted. “She’s a lady and he’s--”

Ignoring Tyrion, Arya, Gendry, and all of the others inside the Great Hall, Sansa turned to face the Hound, cupped his scarred cheek with her hand, and leaned forward to kiss him.

Sandor Clegane’s lips were not soft, but they were pleasant all the same, more pleasant than if they had been. Even the way her cheek brushed against his scars was pleasant, but a pleasantness of a different sort. An intrusive thought presented itself, piquing her curiosity to know what his scars might feel like on other parts of her body, the side of her neck, her breasts, the inside of her thighs...

Sansa had become so lost in her lascivious thoughts, utterly absorbed in the feeling of his lips against hers, that she did not realize until too late that the kiss lingered suspiciously long. She broke away from his lips all at once and saw that Sandor Clegane was staggered. The muttering inside the Great Hall had grown quiet after the display, followed by whispers passing back and forth between the occupants. Sansa was grateful that her half-brother, Jon Snow, was not in the hall just then, else the sound of his longsword leaving its scabbard would surely have filled the air. When Sansa looked in front of her, she discovered that Arya, Gendry, and Tyrion all wore the same horrified expression.

“Seven hells,” her sister said with revulsion. 

“Perhaps we should play another game,” Tyrion offered, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. 

“You said she wouldn’t do it,” Gendry complained to Arya. “I can’t drink another bloody sip.”

“After witnessing that, I’ll gladly do it for you,” the dwarf said, grabbing the cup and gulping the wine.

Sansa looked back over at the Hound who had yet to take his eyes off of her and slid the coin to him. “Here,” she exhaled, discovering that she was almost out of breath from the previous challenge.

The Hound lowered his gaze from her slowly, picking up the coin from the table and appearing as if he were deep in thought before he tossed it into the air. When he caught it, it was dragon side up. “Little bird.”

Sansa’s heart didn’t flutter, it froze. _He chose me._ The temptation to challenge him to kiss her again was overwhelming, debilitating even, but instead, Sansa said, “I challenge you to finish the flagon of wine.”

Sandor Clegane almost looked disappointed. “Aye, let me have the flagon,” he told Arya.

“That’s a _stupid_ challenge, he’ll have to drink the wine either way,” her sister protested.

The Hound snatched the half-filled flagon from Arya’s grip and grunted. “You and your bloody mouth should watch how you speak to your sister.” He drank the wine effortlessly and handed it to the serving girl as she passed by. Once he completed his challenge, Sansa began to sip the dry wine in her cup but was saved from having to finish it all once the Hound lowered it from her mouth. “Here, she-wolf,” he said, tossing the gold to Arya.

Arya caught it and slammed it onto the table. “Dragon. Go on, you shit,” she spat at Sandor Clegane. 

“I challenge you to shut your buggering mouth for the rest of this game.” 

Her little sister glared at him. “How am I supposed to play if I can’t speak?”

The Hound tsked and said, “You spoke. Go on and drink.”

“That’s not fair!” 

“Sounds fair enough to me,” he argued. Sansa couldn’t help but giggle girlishly, and once she did, she couldn’t stop. 

Arya looked over at her and furrowed her brow, vexed by the two of them. Without another word, she picked up her cup, emptied it in one swig, and tossed it at the Hound’s face afterwards. Despite chugging several cups worth of wine a moment ago, the Hound was agile, catching it before it could hit him. Arya grunted, displeased. “Here, Tyrion,” she grumbled, sliding the coin over.

The serving girl had come by again with a full flagon, and Tyrion’s eyes were fixated on her as she walked away. “I believe I will retire for the night before _she_ does.” He swung his legs off the bench and drunkenly bowed. “Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, Gendry….Clegane,” Tyrion bidded farewell, eyeing her and the Hound warily. 

“That means it’s your turn,” Arya said to Sansa, impatiently.

Sansa watched as Tyrion approached the serving girl, the girl’s face lighting up when he likely was sweet talking her into his bed. No longer than a minute later, Tyrion took her hand and left the hall. “It _is_ getting late,” Sansa sighed, wishing it could be her and Sandor Clegane headed to her bed. “I suppose we can play one more round.” Sansa grabbed the coin and flipped it softly into the air for the last time. “King,” she said after it landed on the table. 

“Do you want to fuck the Hound?” her sister asked, unchosen and unprompted. Gendry sat up tall at the question and looked at the sisters in shock. But not even he was in as much shock as Sansa was.

“Have you gone bloody mad?” Sandor Clegane roared, the Great Hall falling silent once again.

“Well, do you?” Arya asked her again, casually.

Every ear in the hall was awaiting her response, eager to know the truth. _Of course I do,_ Sansa thought. Knowing she could never say such a thing out loud, she said, “You’re crude, sister.” Abashed, Sansa stood up, unable to even make eye contact with the Hound after her sister’s attempt to ruin the night. “Pray excuse me.”

Sansa did not look back once she departed, the Great Hall filling with mutters and whispers once again. The snow was heavy outside as she exited the hall, quickly making her way across the yard and into the main keep. When Sansa unconsciously licked her lips as she ascended the stairs, she could still taste Sandor Clegane on them. She savored it, her sex begging to be touched just thinking about the kiss. The embrace was singular, unlike any other, and their lips meeting felt like two halves of a whole coming together. Knowing her sister had ruined that moment infuriated her.

Once inside her bedchamber, Sansa fell atop her bed and felt an unmatched tenseness, frustrated in more ways than one. Before Sansa could relieve herself of these frustrations, drawing up her dress and placing her hand underneath her smallclothes, a soft knock came at the door. _Arya,_ she knew. _Coming to apologize. I should let her stay out there all night._ When the knock came again, Sansa knew she wouldn’t be able to pleasure herself with her sister’s incessant tapping, so she stood up angrily and strode over to the door, ripping it open.

Expecting it to be her sister, Sansa was surprised when she had to lift her eyes up much higher to see the face of her visitor-- the comely, half-scarred face. 

“What are you doing here?” she whispered. “If someone sees--”

With one hand, Sandor Clegane tossed the golden dragon onto the floor inside her bedchamber and held up a flagon of wine in the other. “You left when it was my turn,” he said, gesturing towards the coin on the ground, facing king side up. “Ask me something, little bird.”


	2. Chapter 2

The list of things Sansa wanted to ask Sandor Clegane was endless. _Where were you? Why did you let me stay in King’s Landing? Did you ever think about me like I’ve thought about you? Do you desire me like I desire you?_

“Do you want to come in?”

The Hound snorted with laughter. “Is that your question, or do you only want me in here before you ask?”

His voice was loud, too loud. Sansa impulsively grabbed his arm with both hands and pulled in an effort to bring him into her bedchamber. Although Sansa didn’t have the physical strength to make him budge, he moved on his own, enthusiastically, and shut the door behind him. 

“You must be quiet,” Sansa said with her hands still resting on his arm. “Jon’s bedchamber is just down the corridor. If he knows that you’re here--”

“Let the bastard come. I could best him in a duel blind and with a tourney sword,” the Hound said, overwhelmingly confident.

Sansa squinted at him, remembering that she had challenged him to finish the flagon of wine inside the hall. “Oh, you’re drunk.”

“Drunk?” he scoffed. “Little bird, it’d take three flagons to get me to start slurring.” Sandor looked down at her hands still on his arm and exhaled slowly. 

“I apologize for my sister,” Sansa said softly, removing her hands when she felt the embarrassment from earlier.

“Gods, that girl was a pain in my arse years ago. And now, years later, she still is.” The Hound walked over to the table and set the flagon down, grabbing two empty cups and filling them up halfway.

Watching him, knowing that he planned on staying inside her bedchamber for an extended period of time, drove her mad with lust. But before Sansa would make a fool of herself by interpreting his visit as something it was not, she asked, “Why did you come here?” 

Sandor handed her a cup and gestured for her to sit down at the table. “If the little bird wants to ask me another question, she’ll need to wait her turn.” Sansa couldn’t hide the amorous smile that fell on her lips as she sat in one of the oak chairs. The Hound picked up the golden dragon from the ground and sat just beside her, dropping the coin into her palm. “Your turn, girl. And you still need to drink-- just a sip. We’d be out of this flagon before the hour is out if we chug the shite.”

 _He plans on being here longer than an hour,_ she thought, ecstatic. “No, _you_ do. I asked if you wanted to come in, but you never did answer me. I pulled you in,” she said coyly. 

The Hound looked puzzled for a moment before laughing under his breath. _He may have the most comely smile I’ve ever seen_. “Clever,” he said, placing the cup to his mouth and taking a quick swig, “it’s all I heard when I came to Winterfell. How beautiful and clever you are. And both are too bloody true.”

Sansa blushed; hearing the compliment come from him tempted her to lean forward and kiss him again, to feel his scars brush against her cheek, to place her tongue into his mouth this time, but she only flipped the gold coin instead, landing king side up.

Just when Sansa was going to prompt him to ask her a question, he said, “Why did you kiss me back there? You could have emptied your cup instead.”

Her blue eyes met his grey eyes, and the ambience in her bedchamber became erotic. “Because I’d sooner kiss you,” she admitted.

He shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it. “Do you hate wine that much?” 

_No, I love you that much._ “You already asked your question,” Sansa reminded him. “And I answered. So drink up,” she teased him with a smile.

The Hound chuckled and took another swig, grabbing the coin afterwards to toss it into the air and catch it with his right hand. _If it’s a dragon, I’ll challenge him to kiss me,_ she thought. _Please, old gods, let it be a dragon._ “King,” he said, sounding almost as disappointed as she felt.

Sansa sighed. “Where were you before you came to Winterfell?” She would have rather asked him if he enjoyed the kiss, if he wanted another one from her, but the question she posed was one that had been on her mind since he arrived. 

“That’s a long tale, little bird.”

“You’d rather drink, then?” 

That made him smile. “After your pain-in-the-arse sister left me for dead in the Riverlands, a man found me, the Elder Brother. He took me to the Quiet Isle, healed me, had me digging bloody graves for the dead, and then…” he trailed off.

“And then what?” Sansa asked, captivated by his answer.

“Even on that bloody island we heard what was happening-- the dead marching south, the Boltons being executed, you coming back here. The Elder Brother told me that I survived in order to serve a greater purpose, one that did not include digging my own grave to kill my buggering brother. So, that’s what I’m doing.”

“Fighting the dead?” _Or fighting for me?_ she wanted to ask.

He gave her a dangerous look that made her cross her legs again, the dampness inside her smallclothes growing. “You’ll need to wait to ask another question, little bird.”

Sansa had to look away from his gaze before she would throw herself at him, raising her cup to her lips and taking a sip. When she took the coin into her hand, she held it tightly, praying it would land dragon side up. _Maybe he’ll challenge me to kiss him again._ Once she flipped the coin and it landed on the table, she saw that it was a king. Sansa nearly threw the golden dragon out the window. 

“Did you love him?” 

It was not just the question that took her by surprise, but the somber tone in his voice, an unusual tone for Sandor Clegane. Sansa lifted her eyes from the coin and discovered the dread present in those perfect grey eyes. “Who?” she asked ignorantly.

“Your husband. Not the Imp, the other. The Eyrie lord.”

Sansa could have cried just by looking at his expression. “No,” she answered over the lump in her throat, “not even a little.”

The Hound stared at her, inspecting every inch of her face. “Candor, little bird. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” she said firmly. 

The dread in those eyes she loved seemed to melt away once he seemed convinced that she was telling the truth. After Sandor took a sip of wine, he reached for the coin, brushing her hand in the process. Sansa inhaled sharply, the simple touch more pleasurable than when she had slipped her hand underneath her smallclothes a mere moment ago. 

He eyed her longingly before tossing the gold and catching it, closing his fingers over it afterwards as if he was scared to see what it landed on. The anticipation made her nauseous, or perhaps that had only been due to the dry wine. When his palm steadily opened, revealing a dragon, Sansa couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “Kiss m--”

The anticipation must have been agonizing for him, too. Upon her uttering the first word, the Hound reached out with one hand to cup the back of her neck, pulling her from her chair and into his lap, and pressed his lips eagerly onto hers. While the first kiss had been soft and stationary, the second was lively and heavy. No longer inhibited by the audience inside the Great Hall, Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers brushing the ends of his dark hair, and pulled herself closer, close enough to feel his scarred cheek press against her smooth skin, moaning against his coarse lips when she did. 

Sandor Clegane abruptly placed both hands on her waist and lifted her up, setting her back down onto his lap so that she was straddling him. She could feel how aroused he was beneath her and cursed the clothing that impeded her slick folds from gliding over his stiff cock. 

Sansa hardly ever kissed her late husband, even while in bed together; she never knew kissing could be like this, so unrestrained and passionate that with each passing second, Sansa’s desperation to have more of him led her to start grinding in his lap. In the heat of the moment, Sansa confessed, breathily, “I want you...more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

The Hound kissed her even harder, putting his tongue in her mouth and biting her lower lip before pulling away. “I thought about you every day after I left you, did you know that, little bird? Every single day. When your bloody sister watched me dying, I thought of you, how I left you to be married to the fucking Imp. I should have taken you with me. I should have--”

“Take me,” she exclaimed. The words didn’t convey how she felt, crazed with passion, so she said, “Fuck me, Sandor.”

Wrapping his arms tightly around her waist, Sandor stood so quickly from his chair that it fell over underneath him and onto the warm stone floor. As he carried her over to the bed, he placed his mouth onto the crook of her neck, not just kissing her, but biting her, forcing her nipples to grow hard. Just as he tossed her onto the furs, running his hands down her legs until they reached the top of her smallclothes underneath her dress, a knock came at the door.

“Sansa,” her little sister said unusually gently.

The Hound fell on top of her and growled into her ear. “There’s that little pain in the fucking arse.”

“Open the door,” Arya said, remorseful.

Sansa didn’t know if she was more infuriated by her sister’s interruption or more miserable knowing that she would have no choice but to answer the door. “She won’t leave,” Sansa whispered against his mouth.

“Yes, she will,” he panted, biting her bottom lip and trailing his mouth down her neck again.

“I won’t leave,” Arya said through the door.

“Seven fucking hells, I’ll clout that girl on the bloody head.”

“Let me speak with her, Sandor. I won’t let her come in. If I leave her out there, Jon will hear and he _will_ come in.”

Grunting gutturally, he stood up, helping her off the bed and standing against the wall where the open door would shield him from being seen. Sansa quickly straightened her dress and ran her fingers through her hair before reaching for the handle.

“What?” Sansa said impatiently to her sister, opening the door just wide enough for her to stand in the entrance.

“Can we talk?” her sister slurred, clearly somewhat drunk from the game inside the Great Hall.

“Go on.”

“ _Inside_ your bedchamber?”

Sansa shook her head, praying she’d maintain her composure and not give herself away. “Whatever you’d like to say, you can say it right here.”

Arya sighed. “I’m sorry, all right? I hate the Hound. Well, not really. I actually don’t hate him at all,” she rubbed her eyes, likely frustrated that the wine was making her confess more than she wanted to. “That doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I know you’d never fuck him. Then again...I’d never thought you’d kiss him either.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “It was a challenge, Arya. I wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t ask me to,” she lied.

“Well, it was Gendry’s idea…” she mumbled, stepping onto her toes and squinting to look over Sansa’s head and into the bedchamber. “Are you drinking?”

Sansa’s hand tightened around the door handle. _Even when she is drunk, she pries._ “What?”

“I can smell wine on your breath, but you hardly drank any in the hall.”

“It doesn’t take much for the scent to linger, sister. And it’s likely _your_ breath that you’re smelling. If that’s all, I’m going to bed.”

Arya jumped up to get a better view of the bedchamber, and when her feet landed back on the ground, she furrowed her brow at her. “There’s a flagon and two cups on your table.”

“Goodnight, Arya,” Sansa said, closing the door. 

Her sister shoved her boot inside the entrance, preventing the door from closing. “And there’s a chair knocked over.”

“Move your foot,” Sansa whispered harshly. 

Arya pushed against the door with all of her strength and shouted, “Let me in!” Despite being intoxicated, she was able to push past her and within seconds she spotted the Hound. “Seven fucking hells!” Arya looked over at the bed and saw the furs, unkempt from when he tossed her atop the mattress. “You do want to fuck him!”

Sansa closed the door shut. “Be quiet! You’re going to have Jon come over here.”

“This was once mother and father’s bedchamber, and you’re fucking the Hound in here!”

The Hound interjected himself in the shouting contest, clouting Arya on the head and placing a firm hand over her mouth. The sight would have been amusing had it been under different circumstances. “Shut your bloody mouth,” he rasped as she fought against him. “You’re going to leave here and not mention this to anyone, not even to that bastard of yours.”

Although Arya’s violent protest was muffled against his hand, it was still loud enough to be audible through the door. _If Jon hears…._ “Arya, please. You know what Jon will do to Sandor if he finds out. Please, sister, I love him.” 

All motion and noise ceased in that instant. Arya stilled in the Hound’s grip and stared at her wide-eyed upon hearing the startling confession, but not even she appeared as dumbstruck as Sandor Clegane. His hand fell away from Arya’s mouth, and the silence that endured inside her bedchamber was heavy.

“What did you--” Arya started to whisper before the sound of footsteps could be heard inside the corridor. When the footsteps stopped, a quick knock came at the door.

“Sansa, are you all right?” Jon Snow asked. 

“Oh, gods,” Sansa gasped.

Arya quickly held a finger up to her mouth, signaling for Sansa to remain quiet. “She’s all right, Jon,” her sister shouted, “Sansa drank too much wine, so I came to help her get into bed.”

“Daenerys heard shouting.” 

_Of course Jon was in bed with Daenerys,_ Sansa thought. _No wonder he was not inside the Great Hall._

“That was me. Sansa said something very...disgusting,” she said, glowering at the Hound. “I tried knocking some sense into her, but now she is passed out on the floor.”

“Let me in. I’ll help you carry her onto the bed.”

Surprisingly, the Hound didn’t have his sword on hand, but he was wearing a dagger on his hip. When he slowly unsheathed it, Sansa thought she _would_ pass out on the floor after all.

“I can lift her. She’s as naked as her nameday, Jon. I couldn’t get her to stop ripping her clothes off.” Arya tried taking the dagger out of Sandor’s hand, but that only resulted in him giving her another clout on the head. 

“Oh,” Jon said uncomfortably. “I’ll be in my bedchamber if you need anything.”

As Jon’s footsteps receded, Sansa sighed with relief. But Arya did not look any less tense. “First, Jon falls in love with the stupid Dragon Queen, and then you fall in love with _him_. Father is likely spinning in his tomb right now.”

“Don’t you do that,” Sansa spat. “You’re in love with a bastard.”

“I’m not in love with Gendry,” Arya said unconvincingly. “Even if I was, it’s better than being in love with the Hound.”

Sansa felt like strangling her just then. “Well, I _am_ in love with Sandor,” she stated as fact. “If you are truly my sister, you’ll not do anything to sabotage us.” Shifting her attention from Arya to the Hound, Sansa saw that he was rubbing his hands up and down his face.

Arya glared at him for another brief moment before sighing, giving Sansa a defeated look. “I won’t say anything. I promise.” Her sister made her way towards the door, but before she opened it, she looked over her shoulder and scowled at Sandor one last time. “Before you fuck my only sister inside my dead mother and father’s bedchamber, why don’t you at least have the decency to wait until the castle is sleeping so no one has to hear your disgusting moaning.” Sandor sheathed his dagger and lifted his hand to clout her on the head again, but she left before he could reach her. 

Alone together at last, the room felt different now. _I didn’t just admit that I loved him, I admitted to being_ **_in_ ** _love with him._ It was not just her bedchamber that felt foreign to her, but he did, too. The Hound moved slowly as he latched the door, and when he turned around, he gave her a cautious look. Sansa immediately felt sick to her stomach. _He doesn’t feel the same way,_ she thought. 

“Clever,” was all that he said.

Her anxiousness made her voice weak, short of breath. “What?”

“Telling your sister that you love me so she wouldn’t get your bastard brother involved.” He sounded nearly as breathless as her. 

_He thinks it was only a lie._ Sansa looked over at the table and grabbed the golden dragon, tossing it so that it landed in front of him and praying for it to land king side up. It did. 

“Candor...the truth,” Sansa said, her eyes fastened on his. “Ask me.”

Sandor Clegane stepped forward slower than she had ever seen him move. Once in front of her, he held her jaw with one hand and lifted it up, their unbroken gaze somehow more intense than their earlier embrace. “Are you in love with me, little bird?”

“Y--,” was all she managed to utter before his lips pressed against hers, and soon after, her back pressing against the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for the smut.


	3. Chapter 3

Coarse lips brushed against her throat, placing impassioned kisses over her rapid pulse. “When I came to you that night the Blackwater burned, I was too craven to say it then, so I’ll say it now.” Sandor Clegane lifted his head above hers, and she noticed that his eyes were wet. “I love you, Sansa.” 

The confession alone would have been enough to make her cry happily, but hearing her name leave his lips led her to sob against his mouth when he kissed her. As the kisses became heavier, she wondered what Sandor might say should she ask him to marry her. Just when she intended on finding out, a troubling thought came to her mind, sending her hands to press against his chest.

“Wait,” she exhaled, sniffling. “Arya was right.”

The Hound sounded like some starving beast when her lips left his. “The bloody girl isn’t even here and she’s still a pain in my arse.”

“I’ll be loud, Sandor,” Sansa said hastily. “We should wait for the castle to quieten, or at the very least, wait until Jon is likely asleep.”

It was evident that Sandor heard nothing after hearing Sansa say she’d be loud and proceeded to lift up the skirt of her dress and place his head underneath it. Sansa gasped when his mouth kissed her sex over her damp smallclothes and nearly peaked when he ran his nose up and down between her folds. “Gods, you smell as sweet as a bloody peach.” The Hound bit the seam of her smallclothes and started pulling them down with his mouth seductively. Sansa almost gave in, the sensation of his scars caressing her thigh forcing whimpers to escape her, but the terrifying thought of Jon hearing the sounds of their lovemaking and breaking down the door with Longclaw in hand was enough to persuade her to squeeze her thighs together, preventing him from lowering the silk any further. 

“We need to wait just a moment longer,” she pleaded, the words as difficult to speak as they would be for him to hear. 

Sansa listened to the slew of vulgar curses being grumbled against her sex and had to bite her lower lip to keep from laughing. The Hound nipped the inside of her thigh before pulling away, tossing the skirt down over her legs miserably and walking away from the bed.

“Where are you going?” she asked anxiously, abruptly lifting herself from the furs. 

The Hound approached the window and opened the shutters just enough for him to peer out without being seen. “When will this buggering castle be asleep?” 

Sansa felt the frigid, snowy air blow in and wished that Sandor’s hot breath was still radiating against her sex. _Just a moment longer._ “An hour, most like.”

“An hour?!” he roared. 

Jumping off the bed, Sansa ran over to him and shut the window. “Is it so challenging for you to be quiet?” she whispered.

The Hound looked down at her with a wicked hint of a smile, his eyes trailing from the table and towards the floor beside the door. Sansa looked over her shoulder and saw what it was that grabbed his attention-- the golden dragon, king side up.

“Challenging, is that what you said, little bird?”

When Sansa looked up at him, he looked dangerous. “You still want to play? Truly?”

He strode across the room and grabbed the coin from the warm stone, returning to her just as quickly. “New rules,” Sandor said with mischief in the tone of his voice. “First, bugger the wine. I want to be fully sober when you sit that sweet cunt on my face.” Sansa flushed red, the thought of riding his face making her curse herself for having stopped him. “Second,” he added, “there’s no opting out of questions or challenges.” The Hound tossed the coin to her, and when she caught it, it was a dragon. “Let’s see what you come up with, little bird,” he said darkly, leaning against the wall beside the window.

Watching him stand there, his thick, strong arms crossed over his chest, Sansa knew precisely what she wanted him to do. “Take off your tunic.”

A smirk played on his lips as he stood away from the wall, grabbing the bottom of his black, woolen tunic with both hands and tearing it off his body in one fluid motion. Just as soon as it was off, Sansa found herself walking towards him, her hands aching to touch his build. The Hound didn’t stop her from placing her palms on his bare, muscled chest, nor when she trailed her hands down it, relishing the strength of his core, the power in his muscles, the heat that exuded from his burly figure. _How many men have these muscles killed?_ she wondered salaciously. Sansa’s dainty fingers combed through the dark hair on his chest, awestruck with how beautiful he was. The scars embedded in his body from steel and fire were fascinating to her, not frightening. Her hands fell slowly from his chest, down to his core, and then finally, to the top of his trousers. When the Hound grabbed her wrists, his hands were slightly shaking. “Your turn,” he said throatily.

Sansa had forgotten they were playing a game. Taking a deep breath before turning away from the beautiful sight in front of her, Sansa picked up the coin she had placed atop the table and flipped it, the gold landing with the Targaryen sigil pointing up.

The Hound even laughed dangerously. “You know what I want. Pull out those teats, girl.”

The bedchamber was so quiet afterwards she wondered if he could hear her erratic heartbeat like she could. Loosening the lace on the front of her bodice, Sansa reached in to pull out her soft, round breasts, allowing them to spill over the front of her dress. Much like her after he bared himself, Sandor could not refrain from touching her. He stepped forward and took a breast into each hand, fondling and squeezing them. Sansa moaned too loudly when he pinched her firm, pink nipples, and even louder when he placed his mouth on one, sucking vigorously. Sansa pushed his face away before she would give in and took a pace back. _A moment longer._ “Flip the coin,” she said.

His eyes never left her breasts as they jiggled with each of her movements, not even when he reached for the gold dragon on the table. He tossed the coin up and caught it all without looking. Sansa could see the king’s head facing up in his palm, sighing when she wouldn’t be able to challenge Sandor to take his trousers off. When she witnessed the scarred side of his mouth twitch as he drank in the sight of her exposed breasts, she decided to ask, “What do you want to do to me?” 

The Hound looked down at the coin before finally meeting her eyes, his voice darker than she had ever heard it. “It’ll be dawn before I finish answering that.”

Sansa looked over at the brazier inside her bedchamber, feeling impossibly hot. “Then tell me what you’re thinking right now.”

“I’m thinking of how I can hardly wait to watch my seed drip off those perfect teats after I pull my cock out of your cunt and spill all over them.”

Despite herself, Sansa’s mouth fell open. The raunchy sequence of words took her breath away more than when he caressed her breasts. “Oh,” she exhaled, feeling the walls inside her sex tighten when imagining what he just said. 

“Candid enough for you, little bird?” 

Sansa nodded her head, her breasts shaking from the motion, and held open her hand for him to place the coin into it, speechless. She clumsily flipped it into the air, and rather than landing in her hand, it landed on the floor just between them, clinking against the stone. Their gazes shifted from one another and onto the floor in unison. It was a gold, three-headed dragon. 

“Pick up the coin,” Sandor Clegane challenged her. 

Sansa lifted her blue eyes innocently and observed his ominous expression. Her knees bent slowly, and then her eyes lowered, kneeling down onto the floor to grab the gold dragon. As she was picking it up between her thumb and forefinger, she could hear the sound of the Hound tugging at his trousers. When Sansa lifted her head from the floor, she was met with his cock, primed and aching. The coin dropped back onto the floor when she lifted her hand, wrapping it around the girth of his manhood; it left her in awe more than when she admired his brawny chest. He was significantly longer than her late husband, significantly thicker, too. _It’ll feel like I’m losing my maidenhead all over again,_ she thought. But that didn’t frighten her. Sansa wished she could have given Sandor Clegane her maidenhead. _And soon, it may very well feel like I am. A moment longer._

The Hound groaned heavily at the touch, suppressing the sound that escaped him by biting a clenched fist. Sansa stroked her hand slowly up and down his shaft. Her late husband had told her to do that, so she assumed that Sandor would find it pleasurable just the same. When there was resistance between the skin on her palm and the skin on his length, Sansa leaned forward slightly and opened her jaw wide, placing the tip onto her tongue and gliding her mouth up and down his cock. In the single month she was married, Sansa quickly learned to hate pleasing her husband with her mouth. However, it was different with Sandor-- she _desired_ to do it. And feeling him, tasting him, brought her a novel sort of pleasure, her smallclothes unmistakably saturated with her arousal.

The muffled, quieted sounds escaping him and reverberating inside his chest almost sounded like moans of agony, but when Sansa lifted her eyes as she took him into her mouth, she discovered the glaring satisfaction on his face. His eyes, which had been tightly shut, opened when Sansa gagged on his length after attempting to take in more of him. Just when she thought it couldn’t be possible, his cock became stiffer once their eyes met. The Hound lowered one hand to cup the back of her head, following her motions as she bobbed up and down his shaft with her eyes locked onto his. That same hand quickly turned into a clenched fist, taking in a handful of her auburn hair with it, and pulled her up to standing forcibly. Sandor held her there in front of him, silent, with his eyes closed and breath mindful, before finally saying, “If that husband of yours wasn’t dead already, I’d kill him.”

Sansa giggled enticingly. “The coin is still on the floor.”

“I’ll get it. If you so much as breathe on my cock, I’m like to spill.” 

“Don’t you want that?” she asked, lifting her hand to brush the long, dark strands of hair out of his face. 

He took her wrist into his hand and pulled it away, as if her touching him would be too much for him to handle. “Before the night is over, girl, you’ll have my seed spent in and on you in more places than one, but not until I know you’ve peaked first.” The Hound grunted when he placed his aching cock back inside his trousers. Afterwards, he leaned down to pick up the coin and tossed it onto the table, the gold spinning around for what seemed like forever until it landed, King Jaehaerys facing up.

Before Sansa could come up with something to ask him, drunken shouts could be heard out in the yard. The Hound turned around and opened the window slightly, cursing under his breath at what he saw. 

“You’d think we’ve won the war. This lot is not like to retire for the night till the sun rises in the east,” he complained. “I’d just as well fuck you outside in front of them if they continue standing underneath this bloody window.”

 _Outside._ A terribly reckless idea came to her mind, acting as an instinct of sorts. An instinct she felt she must heed. “Do you trust me?”

The Hound turned from the window and narrowed his eyes. “What was that?”

“The coin...my question. I’m asking you: do you trust me?”

While Sandor had been the one in control for most of the night, it was clear to him that would no longer be the case. His eyes fell down to her breasts that still spilled from the front of her bodice before he nodded. “Aye, little bird. You’re the only one I trust.”

Sansa stood on her toes and stole a kiss before placing her breasts back inside her bodice and lacing it snugly. “Put on your tunic,” she ordered. “And bring the coin.”

The Hound crossed his arms once again, his body bare from the waist up, and the muscles underneath his skin danced as they flexed. “What are you doing, girl?”

Reaching onto the floor, she grabbed his woolen tunic and tossed it at his face playfully. “You said you trusted me.” Sansa walked over to the chest at the end of her bed and kneeled down to pull out her thickest cloak, dark grey, embroidered with a direwolf in silver thread, and lined with fur. She then reached down to the very bottom of the chest, underneath her other cloaks, gowns, and silks, and found what she had been looking for, taking in a deep, quivering breath before taking it out. 

“Bloody hell,” she heard Sandor curse behind her. “Is that--”

“Your Kingsguard cloak,” Sansa confirmed, standing up from the floor. Once she turned around, she saw that he was clad once again in the thick tunic and handed him the cloak. “Some nights when I couldn’t sleep, I’d take out your cloak and soak it in water, use whatever I could find to remove the stains. There was a lot of blood, but it’s cleaner than it was when you last wore it.”

When the white cloak touched his hand, Sansa thought he might faint. “You kept my cloak,” he said, unbelieving. “You cleaned it…” 

Before she would cry watching his reaction, Sansa wrapped her own cloak around her shoulders and said, “Put it on, it’s cold outside.”

“ _Outside?_ ”

Sansa walked towards the entrance and grabbed the door handle. “Don’t make me leave without you,” she said, teasing.

The Hound had no choice but to wrap the cloak about him, bringing about a wave of nostalgia as she watched him stride towards her with it undulating behind him. He grabbed her throat once he stood behind her and returned his coarse lips onto her pulse. “Someone will see us, little bird.”

Sansa whimpered against the door when his teeth grazed over her skin. “Only the old gods.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the appetizer of smut. The main course is up next.


	4. Chapter 4

The snow fell softly. The shadows fell heavily. And concealed in those shadows behind the snowy main keep, Sansa and the Hound kissed ravenously, their warm breath clouding about them, before making their way towards the godswood.

A roar of laughter came from across the yard, just on the opposite side of where they stood. “Your guardsmen are bloody drunk,” he whispered beside her ear.

Sansa broke away from his embrace and peered around the corner to survey the distance between the main keep and the godswood. There were two guardsmen standing beside one another, passing a flask back and forth and laughing obnoxiously. Had it been any other night, Sansa would have chastised them like she was their mother for drinking on duty. However, their irresponsibility, and impaired judgement, would work in their favor. Sansa looked around on the ground behind the tower and picked up a snow-covered stone the size of her hand. 

Sandor chuckled under his breath. “What do you mean to do with that, little bird? Bash in their heads?” Sansa threw her arm back and tossed the stone towards the East Gate to produce a loud  _ clank _ against the steel bars. The guardsmen may have been drunk, but they heard the sound all the same and quickly placed the lid on their flask, muttering to another as they approached the gate. As the way cleared for them to cross, the Hound pressed her against the frigid stone and kissed her deeply. “Gods, you are clever.” 

Before the men would return, Sansa took Sandor’s hand and ran for the godswood. They had no choice but to exit the pitch black shadows and enter the palely lit yard as the overcast sky began to clear quite queerly considering it was winter, allowing the moonlight to bleed into the castle. Whether or not they had been seen, Sansa could not say, but they had not been stopped. And just when a stabbing pain developed below her ribs due to the stressful endeavor, the two entered Winterfell’s primal godswood. 

The darkness inside would have been oppressive had the clouds not thinned out. In the presence of the light from the moon, the pale bark of the weirwood tree appeared to glow off in the distance, as if it were signalling for them to come closer. The relief Sansa felt once inside the sanctuary of sentinels, oaks, and ironwoods was immense; breathless, smiling, and holding the hand of the man she loved inside the old forest, Sansa had only one thought.  _ The next time the coin lands on a king, I’ll ask him to marry me. _

The Hound picked her up and cradled her in his arms as they passed through the foliage beside the entrance. “Where to, girl?”

Sansa rested her head on his broad chest, closing her eyes when she could hear the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat. “The weirwood,” she whispered.

As they approached, Sansa perceived a tenseness building inside of him, in his arms, in the pattern of his breath, in the escalating pace of his beating heart.  _ The heart tree must frighten him,  _ she thought.  _ Only those who follow the old gods can find solace in the carved face. Not even my own mother felt comfortable here.  _

It felt like a hundred hidden eyes were watching them once he set her down beside the face of the tree. Sandor took one look at her before grabbing her throat, pushing her against the pale bark. But he did not kiss her, he only stared. “Gods, you are beautiful,” he rasped, lifting up the skirt of her dress with his hand. His palm found its way underneath, cupping her sex over her smallclothes before sliding inside, the callouses on his fingers caressing over the slippery fluid between her folds. When he slipped one finger into her entrance, he moaned louder than she did. “I’d burn the other half of my face off if that’s what it took to have you.”

The Hound's mouth fell heavily onto hers, devouring her as two of his fingers stirred inside her wet entrance. Sansa was enamored of his ferocity, but before she could give herself to him, the thought returned. Sansa asked in a whimper, “Did you bring the coin?”

“No, I thought you did,” he said. Sansa pulled away from his mouth abruptly, frowning at him before discovering the shadow of a smile on his lips. “Easy, little bird. Don’t go picking up another stone. I’ve got it.” When Sandor removed his hand from her sex, her arousal glistened on his fingers, but rather than wiping them clean on his clothing, he used his tongue to lick it off, a low growl escaping him while he did it. The hand on her throat fell to open his cloak, reaching into the pocket of his tunic and pulling out the gold dragon, glinting beautifully in the moonlight. 

Sansa could feel the presence of the carved face beside her, the unseen eyes watching her, urging her on.  _ I’ll ask him.  _ “Toss it.”

The Hound shook his head and took her hand into his, placing the gold in her palm. “It’s your turn,” he said, suddenly solemn. 

Recalling him tossing the coin last inside her bedchamber, Sansa sighed, growing more impatient. She surrendered and tossed the coin softly upwards into the last sprinkles of falling snow, catching it dragon side up. Sansa was immediately grateful that it had been her to land on the dragon and not him. Shifting her gaze to the melancholy face beside her, she prayed silently.  _ Please, old gods, let the coin face king side up when he catches it. I’ll ask him, I swear it. I must know if he’ll-- _

“Marry me,” Sandor Clegane challenged her, his voice softer than the subsiding snow.

The gold coin fell from her hand. Sansa’s eyes left the carved face all at once to meet his earnest gaze. “Sandor,” she exhaled, wondering if she had only imagined the two words.

He placed his hands on either side of her face, the warmth welcome against her cold cheeks. “Marry me, Sansa. Right here. That’s how you northerners do it, eh? You stand in front of this tree and exchange some words and prayers? Well, I don’t know shite about either of those, girl. But I’d sooner be ripped apart by an Other than watch you wed another buggering lord. Marry me,” he said again, pleading. 

The sight of the man in front of her blurred as her eyes welled up with tears. When she nodded, one fell down her cheek like a warm, trailing kiss.

Her cloak fell from her shoulders before her next breath as Sandor tore it off with matchless intensity. The dress she wore was next, the laces on her bodice ripped apart effortlessly by his two strong hands and tugged down past her hips, removing her smallclothes with it to leave her clad in only her boots. Goose pimples quickly covered her skin and her nipples grew painfully hard, but the cold did not pierce her like she thought it would, not when engrossed by his secure embrace, not when her core was warmed by the hot breath on her breasts as Sandor took a nipple into his mouth. His hand returned between her legs to brush the soft, auburn curls atop her sex. Soon after, his hand was replaced by his mouth as he knelt down onto the snow-laden earth and lifted her thighs onto his shoulders. With her back pressed firmly against the trunk of the weirwood tree, Sansa cried out once his mouth began consuming her, licking, sucking, and gnawing on her folds. The stark contrast between the heat escaping his mouth and the bitterness of the heart tree heightened every sensation, stealing her breath. When she looked down, relishing the sight of Sandor Clegane feasting on her, she succumbed to the all-consuming climax, her vivid blue eyes clenching tightly as she moaned unabashadley.

The unmatched pleasure kept her whimpering long after her release, even after Sandor set her feet onto the ground. As she admired the way the entire lower half on his face glistened with her arousal, the Hound removed his cloak and draped it over her shoulders, securing it around her neck. She hadn’t realized how numb the rest of her body had become until she felt the warmth of his Kingsguard cloak, the heat that lingered on it steadily thawing out her blood. The sweetness of her juices on his tongue as it brushed against hers reawakened her desire, craving him more than ever. Sansa placed her hand, numb and tingling, on the front of his trousers, fondling the long, thick bulge until he could take no more. The Hound sat atop the ancient earth with his back pressed against the weirwood, pulling her down onto his lap so that she straddled him. A moan escaped her when she could feel his manhood pressing against her sex, the anticpation to have inside her almost vexing. Without wasting another second, she lifted herself just enough to reach into his trousers and pull out his cock, stroking the warm length with her hand before shifting her hips to sit down on it in one fluid motion. 

“Oh, fuck,” she blurted just as a string of much more vulgar curses were leaving his mouth. Not even the surrounding grove of trees could have muffled their moans as their bodies joined. The sounds of their lovemaking seemed to echo around them, filling the ancient godswood with a titillating song. Sansa’s walls stretched in ways they never had before as he filled her, tightening around his girth to bring them both a shock of pleasure. Once her sex adjusted to his size, Sansa began to lift herself up and down, creating a soft, sensual rhythm of bouncing on top of him. 

The Hound threw his head back against the weirwood so hard she thought she heard the bark crack. “Bloody fucking hell, tell me what to say.”

“What?” Sansa asked, moaning.

“The words.”

Sansa shifted from bouncing to gliding, rocking her hips back and forth so that she could easily look at him. “I only have to agree to take you as my husband.”

In between heavy breaths and grunts, he asked, “And do you? Tell it true, girl.”

Sansa gazed deep into his grey eyes and said, “Yes.”

“Then you’re stuck with me, little bird,” Sandor said, almost menacingly. “Until the day I bloody die.”

Captivated by his words, Sansa swayed her hips in circles, moaning shamelessly against the scarred side of his face. She knew of no other sensation in the Known World that could be as divinely satisfying as feeling his cock stir inside her as she rode him, her hips becoming looser with every rotation. 

“That’s it, girl,” Sandor panted, squeezing either side of her ass. He pulled the Kingsguard cloak draped over her back to cover her bare thighs and took her chin into his hand, forcing her to gaze into his eyes. “I want to look into your eyes when you peak on my cock,” he said. Although the Hound was not the one moving, he sounded more exhausted than her. Sansa’s eyes shut when she felt her climax approaching, and the hand on her chin tightened, signalling for her to open them back up. “Don’t you look away from me,” he growled. “My bloody wife. My beautiful wife.” 

His words and the severe tone of his voice were as potent as his manhood filling her, and when she was forced to stare into those grey eyes, Sansa’s walls tightened and released rhythmically. It became impossible for her to keep her eyes open, but the Hound didn’t stop her when her face fell forward to cry onto his shoulder, writhing on top of his length as her pleasure consumed her. When her rhythm broke, his hands took over. Sandor Clegane squeezed her hips violently to rock her back and forth until a bestial sound escaped him. His seed did not just spill into her, it shot inside vigorously; Sansa said a silent prayer to the hundreds of invisible old gods watching them for it to quicken inside her womb. She then said another prayer, one for their marriage. It did not matter to her that Sandor followed no gods nor knew any prayers.  _ I’ll pray for the both of us,  _ she thought.  _ And when we arise, it’ll be as husband and wife. _

As soon as their lovemaking ended, a gentle snow returned. While Sansa had been unbothered by the cold in the midst of their passion, she started shivering afterwards, despite herself. Sandor wrapped the cloak about her tighter before kissing her on the mouth, depleted of energy. “You’ll freeze if we’re out here any longer, wife.”

The word made her sex contract around his cock, causing him to jolt. Groaning, he lifted her off of him, pulled up his trousers, and grabbed her ripped dress from the earth, dusting off the snow. Sansa couldn’t understand how she ignored the cold for so long once he removed his cloak in order to drape her dress over her head. Her ivory breasts, bruised from the Hound’s previous sucking and gnawing, spilled out from the torn bodice. Her husband’s eyes were fixated on the sight for a fleeting moment before he handed her the cloak she wore to the godswood. Sansa looked at the fur-lined, grey cloak before tossing it aside. “No,” she said, “I’ll wear yours.” That made him kiss her. 

Once standing, fresh aches became present inside her sex just as Sandor’s seed spilled down her thigh. As she bundled her cloak and damp smallclothes in her arms, she took one last glance at the weirwood before departing. The bone-white bark seemed to glow brighter, the leaves somehow redder, and when she looked at the long, carved face, Sansa saw a resemblance in it, wondering how she never noticed before that it almost looked like her brother, Bran.

It was bittersweet leaving the godswood. Part of her wished that they could stay there forever and avoid the chaos of war and Westerosi politics. Another part of her longed to rule beside her husband, the only husband she ever wanted. But before Sansa could do that, she would need to inform the northmen, her sister, Bran... _ and Jon… _ she thought, suddenly sick with apprehension.

Once the silent yard stood before them, Sansa realized it was futile to remain hidden.  _ He’s my husband now. The castle will learn that on the morrow…as will my siblings…and Jon.  _ Shaking the terrifying thought that followed from the forefront of her mind, Sansa exited the darkness of the godswood’s entrance and walked into the middle of the yard, wrapping the white cloak about her snugly. When she heard no footsteps beside her, she turned around and observed Sandor hesitant to come forward. “What is it?” she asked.

There was a glimmer inside the blackness when his eyes surveyed the yard. “I need my bloody sword.”

She raised her eyebrow at him. “Why do you need your sword?”

“For when every northman comes to make you a widow again.”

It wasn’t said lightly, but Sansa couldn’t help but giggle. “I’m the Lady of Winterfell, and you’re my husband. That makes you their lord. The north is loyal, and loyal men do not kill their lord.”

“I’ve known loyal men to kill dogs.”

Sansa sighed before examining the yard quickly, ensuring that no one was nearby before opening the white, stained cloak, revealing her bare breasts as they spilled from the torn bodice of her dress. The presentation convinced him more than words ever could. In three strides, the Hound wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her from the snow, kissing her with such hunger she thought he meant to take her right there. 

“My wife,” he said slowly, as if he hoped to taste the word leaving his mouth. “You go inside. I want you naked and bent over that table when I return from grabbing my sword.”

“Here’s your sword,” a somber voice called out, followed by a loud  _ thump _ coming from beside them. Their brazen kiss was broken all at once. Sansa turned her head hesitantly to the side, discovering a longsword that had been tossed into the snow. She then raised her eyes.

Atop the ramparts beside the main keep, brooding out into the yard where she and her husband embraced one another out of the shadows, stood Jon Snow, frowning and wielding his Valyrian steel.


	5. Chapter 5

For a fleeting moment, Sansa thought she might be staring at the ghost of her father. His long face, dark-brown hair, dark grey eyes and guarded look made Jon Snow the spitting image of Eddard Stark. _A bastard he may be, but he looks more like father than the rest of us._

“Pick up your steel,” Jon commanded.

“No.” Sansa intended to yell, but the word came out as a breath, her plea lost in the surging drifts of snow.

Sandor Clegane laughed when he picked up the longsword, a snarling laugh that reverberated throughout the castle. “Have you any idea who it is you’re challenging, bastard?”

“Sansa, go to your bedchamber,” Jon said, as sternly as her late father, descending from the ramparts.

Her jaw was trembling, but it was not due to the cold. “Jon,” she managed to find her voice, albeit quivering, “leave him alone.”

“I’d wager that I’ve killed a hundred times the men you have,” the Hound gloated. 

Jon stood several paces away, his right hand taut on the hilt of his sword. “Easy to kill a hundred men when many of those men are women and children.”

That seemed to make Sandor uncomfortable. He spat on the ground and muttered, “Bugger you.”

Left frozen by snow and confrontation alike, Sansa watched as window shutters in the nearby main and guest towers opened due to the commotion in the yard. After Sandor’s disrespect, Jon removed his heavy fur cloak, priming for a fight. Without forethought, Sansa took two steps forward, placing herself in front of Sandor. A gust of frigid wind blew in and the Kingsguard cloak opened just enough to reveal her torn dress, and spilling from the bodice, her bare, bruised breasts.

Jon always had a solemn disposition, but just then, his face was twisted with fury. “You raped my little sister!” 

“I didn’t rape your sister, bastard. She wanted me.” 

Learning that it was consensual appeared to horrify her half-brother all the more. “She’s drunk!”

“I’m not,” Sansa interposed.

“I came by your bedchamber and Arya--”

“I was never drunk, Jon. Arya lied.”

“Arya-- why would she...” The realization came to him, and in the same breath, he paced forward. 

Upon his approach, Sandor gently pulled her to stand behind him before striding forward to meet Jon’s threat. Just as she made to shout, their steel blades met, louder than the squalls of wind about them. The previously quiet, empty yard slowly filled up as guardsmen, castle staff, visiting lords and knights and men and women awoke, departing from the towers to eagerly witness the duel between her bastard half-brother and unbeknownst to them, her husband.

“You were in her bedchamber, my father’s before that!” Jon shouted before he swung again.

The Hound snorted with contempt as he blocked the attack, breaking away with such force that Jon stumbled back. “Aye, I was,” he spat. “And you’re going to die for that?”

“No,” Jon said, squeezing both hands around the hilt of his sword, “you are.”

“Stop it!” Sansa finally shouted, knowing it was futile. While the two men were vastly different from one another, they were both quick to anger, refusing to overlook a slight. _This will not end without bloodshed,_ she thought, horrified. 

A gasp erupted from the growing audience when their swords met, clashing again and again, causing her to wince and whimper each time. A flurry of snow interjected itself between the men, forcing them to separate themselves when neither could open their eyes. When the gust quelled, Jon and Sandor stood several paces away from one another and in unison, circled the yard like two crows about to descend on a carcass. 

“You come to Winterfell and within a day, exploit the Lady-- my little sister!”

“Is that what you bastards call it? _Exploit_ ?” When her husband chuckled fiendishly, tapping the point of his longsword on the mantle of snow as he paced, Sansa knew rage had become him and dreaded his response. “Well then, I only sat there while she _exploited_ me. And she exploited me real fucking good.”

Jon halted in his place and stared at him, as if he could not believe his ears. Once it became clear to her that he digested the implication, he strode forward and aimed for his neck. Just as Sandor blocked the attack, Arya ran out from the entrance to the main tower with Needle in her hand, wide-eyed and shouting, “Seven fucking hells!” 

“Arya, stop them!” Sansa yelled, clutching the white cloak about her body and cursing herself for being utterly useless in that moment.

Her little sister looked at her from across the yard and gave her a commisterating look. _She knows there’s no stopping them either._

As she returned her attention towards the dueling men, both garbed in black looking like two ferocious shadows dancing in the pale snow, the point of Jon’s Valyrian steel swiped Sandor’s left shoulder. A scream escaped Sansa, her knees falling onto the thickening blanket of snow. 

“You bloody bastard,” the Hound grumbled as crimson slowly dripped from the cut. 

Sansa was petrified watching the blood stain the snow beneath him, unknowing of how deep the wound was. _Please, let it not be deep,_ she prayed silently, _let this foolishness not turn fatal._ Her prayers were interrupted when two arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her up to standing. In the throes of the encounter, Sansa was so engulfed in the swords and blood and grunts that she had forgotten about the others in the yard, startling at the touch as if waking from a terrible dream. But it wasn’t a dream, for the clashing of steel was unabating. “Forgive me, Sansa,” a soft, remorseful voice said behind her.

“Theon,” she breathed, looking over her shoulder at the shadow of a man who had been broken by Ramsay Bolton. “What did you do?”

“I saw the kiss in the Great Hall and then again behind the main keep….I had to tell him, Sansa. I thought you were drunk and that he might--” Theon paused when the two swords struck against one another impossibly loud, both men grunting fiercely at the impact. “You need to leave. Jon means to kill him.”

Nothing had sounded more absurd to Sansa. _Death because of a kiss?_ Developing a rage of her own, Sansa twisted in Theon’s grasp, and yelled, “Let me go!” 

Somehow over the loud gusts of wind and clamorous steel, Sandor heard her and glanced over his shoulder after dodging a sharp swing of Jon’s sword, discovering Theon Greyjoy with his arms wrapped around her to take her from the yard. If Sansa thought his anger was piqued before, she was wrong. As Jon stepped forward to attack, Sandor lifted his foot and kicked him in his core, forcing him to fall back onto the snow-laden earth. In an ordinary duel, the Hound would have gone for the fatal blow given Jon’s vulnerable position, however, despite his unparalleled anger, it was never his intent to kill her bastard brother. Rather than attack, Sandor turned around and strode towards her. “Get your bloody hands off my wife!”

Theon’s struggle to pull her ceased all at once, and as Sansa looked around the blustery yard, she discovered that everyone had quietened, the castle still and silent once again save for the brewing snow storm.

Jon never stood from the snow. He only sat there, clutching his abdomen, bewildered. “What?” Sansa couldn’t hear his incredulity over the wind, but she read the question on his lips. And she saw the panic in his eyes.

 _He didn’t hear Sandor call me that when he discovered us in the yard,_ Sansa realized. _And Theon never saw us go into the godswood…he doesn’t know._

“They are married, Jon,” she heard her brother, Bran, chime in from his wheeled chair along the perimeter of the yard, “in the sight of the old gods.” 

_When did Bran get here?_ she wondered. _And how is it that he knows? Unless…_ Sansa had been skeptical to believe the abilities her younger brother was said to have, namely the warging into a three-eyed crow and visiting the past, but as she reflected on the unseen eyes inside the godswood, the resemblance of Bran in the heart tree, she gathered that the old gods had not been the only ones to watch their union. The realization nearly made her retch. 

Theon let go of her as Sandor came nearer, apologizing again under his breath before walking away. Her husband stood behind her and wrapped his arms over her breasts with his sword still gripped firmly in his right hand, heeding no mind to what the others in the yard may think. “That’s right-- my wife. You didn’t know that, did you, bastard?”

Across the yard, Sansa heard a groggy, sardonic chuckle and saw that it was Tyrion Lannister, a ornate chalice of wine in his hand despite the late hour, standing beside the same serving girl he had taken to bed. “Oh, dear, cruel gods, you mock us all,” he said aloud.

“What the fuck,” Arya exhaled, dropping her sword. 

“Vows said at swordpoint are not valid!” a vicious Lyanna Mormont cried out over the falling snow. “Clearly that’s what this.. _Clegane_ had to do. He means to take her claim!” 

A sword leaving its scabbard followed and Sansa shifted her attention onto the other side of the yard where Brienne of Tarth stood, dutifully. “Is this true, Lady Sansa?”

“Well, the lot of you _did_ see him kiss her inside the Great Hall. And yet, not one of you reprimanded him,” Jaime Lannister added casually. “When a dog misbehaves, you must needs scold him, else…”

“Then why didn’t you do anything, Kingslayer?” spat one of the Manderlys.

“The same reason I didn’t do anything after the dog hit me-- I’m not a madman.”

More whines and cries and groans followed, the culmination of them louder than the squalling wind. Sansa could not bear it any longer, the false accounts of what happened inside the Great Hall serving as a grim reminder of Littlefinger’s many bent truths, and shouted, “That is enough! I am a woman grown and the Lady of Winterfell, and I can choose my husband as I see fit.”

“So it’s true?” Lyanna asked, unsmiling. “You wedded the Lannister’s dog? Willingly?”

“He is your lord now, so you will address him accordingly,” Sansa answered earnestly.

Still sitting dumbfounded in the snow, Jon inhaled deeply and winced, as if it had been the first breath he had taken since Sandor kicked him in the gut. “Sansa, to the solar-- now!” He really did sound like her father then.

Sansa looked over her shoulder at her husband, discovering that he was scowling at Jon. “Come, Sandor,” she said softly. The Hound looked down at her and the frown on his face dissipated instantly, soothed by her-- his wife. 

Moving forward through the blizzardy yard, the audience gradually returned to their bedchambers, but not without muttering to one another along the way. The Hound had one arm wrapped about her waist obsessively as they exited the yard and entered the main keep, the gesture infuriating the northmen and the singularly vicious Lyanna Mormont who were glowering at him.

Just beside the entrance, Tyrion stood with his empty chalice and looked the newlyweds over uneasily before saying, “Lady Stark, when I am sober, do remind me not to introduce anyone to Challenge or Candor again-- ever.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


A silence lingered inside Sansa’s solar, the sound of the flames stirring inside the brazier almost lulling her to sleep as she sat at the head of the table. Her husband opted to stand behind her, both hands resting protectively on her shoulders, whereas her siblings, Arya, Bran, and Jon, sat at the dark ironwood table, along with the much unnecessary and unwelcome addition of Daenerys Targaryen who was sitting awkwardly close to Jon.

“What--” Jon began before stopping himself, hanging his head towards the table for a brief moment. Her half-brother breathed in and out slowly, as if to prevent himself from losing his composure. “Sansa, why?”

“I love him.”

Jon shook his head disapprovingly. Sansa had seen that same look many times from her father when Arya would be caught sneaking from their lessons with their septa. “I thought you were past this.”

“Excuse me?” Sansa asked, growing defensive. “Past what?”

“These...infatuations.” 

She would have slapped him just then and Sandor was like to do much the same, his hands tightening on her shoulders. _He talks of infatuations as if that is not precisely what he and Daenerys are to one another._ “It’s not an infatuation, Jon. I’ve loved him for years.”

Jon squinted at her. “He just rode into Winterfell the day prior. How long has it been since you were a prisoner in King’s Landing and this same man, Joffrey Baratheon’s dog, was beating you? Several years if my memory serves me right. Several years apart.”

“Sandor never beat me-- not once. And what does time matter?” asked Sansa.

“I remember when Waymar Royce visited Winterfell years ago. You thought you loved him when you first met him. And then Joffrey...Loras Tyrell if what Arya says is true. Harrold--”

“I never had love for Harry. That was a ploy by Littlefinger so he could take the North and the Eyrie. But you know that,” Sansa said coolly. “You only mean to discredit my feelings for Sandor.”

Jon brooded, then more than ever. “Sansa, you’ve only recently lost your husband. It would not be unusual for you to be grieving, and in consequence, making...curious decisions.”

Sansa crossed her arms over her bruised breasts hidden underneath the Kingsguard cloak. “ _Grieving?_ What, pray tell, is so difficult to understand when I say I did not love Harry?”

“I’ll not let my little sister be married to a Clegane!” Jon boomed. “Gods, what would father say? Your mother?”

“Jon,” Bran broke in, vacant as ever. “That is not for you to say. The two are married before the old gods. Your gods.”

That may have been the first time ever she observed Jon frowning at Bran. “There were no witnesses.”

“There need not be witnesses. All that is required is the presence of the old gods,” Bran informed him, his voice monotone.

Jon clenched his fists atop the table. In response, Daenerys took it upon herself to place her hands on his forearm, gently rubbing up and down. While Sansa was able to refrain from overtly grimacing at the display, Arya did no such thing. She even snorted with disgust.

“Arya-- what say you?” asked Jon. “It’s clear that Bran has no regard for Sansa’s well being.” Bran did not respond to the slight. He was too busy staring blankly ahead at the brazier instead.

Her little sister was still glaring at his arm before shifting her dour look towards Sandor. “I hate him.”

“A poor lie!” Sandor interjected for the first time since entering the solar. “I heard you outside that bloody door. You don’t hate me at all.” Sansa did not have to look at him to know there was a faint, smug smirk on his face.

Arya frowned and looked away, muttering something under her breath, likely a string of curse words. “As I was saying, I hate him,” she began, “ _but…_ it could be worse, Jon. Even the Hound is better suited for Sansa than the Imp and Harry the Arse. And far better than Littlefinger.”

“This is all for naught,” Bran said. “The two are married in sight of the old gods.”

Jon slammed his fist atop the table and Daenerys jolted. “Why are you so adamant on repeating that? She is your sister!”

“Because, I know things you do not, Jon,” their little brother said, almost eerily. “And the old gods have willed it for a purpose far greater than you can comprehend.”

A short silence passed before Jon cocked his head. “What are you implying, Bran? That the old gods think me to be a lackwit?” 

Bran sat there and stared at him, silent.

Sandor snorted a laugh and Sansa couldn’t abstain from doing the same, the couple’s humor sending Jon to rest his head in his hands, defeated. “Oh, gods,” he groaned.

“Jon,” Daenerys spoke up, soft and pretty, though Sansa always sensed a wickedness in her voice. “An army of dead men march south. Cersei Lannister means to steal my throne. Your sister is more than capable of making such a decision for herself. Her husband can prove himself in the wars to come.” Something about the last part of what the Dragon Queen said troubled Sansa. It even sounded like a threat.

“I need to visit the crypt,” he said desperately. “We will hold a meeting inside the Great Hall on the morrow. You can formally inform your men of your decision then.” Jon stood from the ironwood table and clutched his abdomen, clearly aching from the earlier combat. Daenerys followed him, taking his hand in hers as they made to exit. When they stood just beside her, Jon paused and gave her a somber look. “I love you, Sansa,” was all that he said before brooding again, glancing at the Hound. “If you ever hurt her, it won’t be Arya who kills you-- it’ll be me.” 

Sansa was thankful that Sandor did not decide to say something stupidly impulsive in response as he had earlier in the yard. Once Jon and Daenerys departed, Arya stood from the table and took the handles of Bran’s wheeled chair. “It’ll be dawn in a couple of hours. Do us all a favor and let us sleep. I don’t care to hear you two fucking down the corridor just because it’s no longer a secret.” 

The Hound clouted her on the head and she and Bran left without another word. 

As soon as Sansa inhaled to speak, Sandor lifted her from the chair and sat her on the table, his tongue greeting hers enthusiastically. _His blood is up from duel,_ she thought, discovering that his cock was already stiff once he pressed it against her sex, void of smallclothes. “My wife,” he groaned against her mouth. He loved saying that. And Sansa loved hearing it.

Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and heard him grunt, not with pleasure, but in pain. _Jon’s sword._ Tearing her arms away from him in an instant, Sansa had somehow forgotten that he was wounded and gingerly observed his shoulder. “Oh, gods, are you all right?” 

“A bloody scratch,” he dismissed.

“It needs to be cleaned,” she said. It was not a deep cut, not enough to require a needle and thread to close the wound, but Sansa knew better than to leave it unattended. “You’ll need to boil wine.”

Sandor groaned just as miserably as Jon had, his mouth begging to press against hers. “Aye,” he surrendered, turning away to find a flagon and pot. While he was busy on the far end of the solar, Sansa sat on the table left to her thoughts and remembered what the Hound had said he wanted her to do when he returned to the main keep before their encounter with Jon. _Naked and bent over...forgive me, Arya._

Quietly and quickly, Sansa removed the Kingsguard cloak and slid down her dress, leaving her boots on as she had before, and rested her breasts against the warm ironwood surface. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that Sandor was entirely unaware of what she was doing, for he was cursing at setting the pot of wine over the flames. _He hates fire. It was stupid of me to tell him to do it...I could’ve just as easily done it._ Her guilt was soon forgotten once he turned around, growing painfully aroused watching him stare at the pink folds between her legs that were wet from her earlier arousal and his seed. 

“Fucking seven hells,” he murmured. Suddenly his gaze dropped, and quite frantically, he reached into the pocket of his tunic where he pulled out the gold dragon. 

“You took it?” asked Sansa, smitten at the sight.

Sandor walked towards her with a swagger, flipped the coin, and slammed it down beside her face, raising his hand away from it slowly. It was a king. 

“All right, wife. Candor, it is,” her husband said as he placed himself behind her, lowered his trousers, and slid his cock into her entrance. Groaning with pleasure, he asked, “Do you want to have my child?”

Sansa moaned into the table inside her solar, _their_ solar, as he thrusted inside of her and whimpered, “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
>  **Connect with me on** [Tumblr!](https://thequeen--in--thenorth.tumblr.com/)


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